Shine
by White Russian
Summary: 20 drabbles from the point of view of one especially unfortunate henchman.


**Title: **Shine

**Characters:** Joker, henchmen

**Pairing: **none

**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

**A/N:** I love doing gap-fillers, and this particular scenario was just crying out for some extra attention.

It's through his own shitty luck that the Joker takes any notice of him, and for the first time at the facility, he is grateful for the half-ton steel doors and walls that separated their cells. He can still hear him through the scuffed metal, cackling and mocking. _"Ronnie!" _the Joker yells, repeating it sing-song, thanking the orderly who's accidentally uttered it for being so _kind_ as to tell him. "It's so _good_ to put a name to the face!"

He covers his ears with the stained, threadbare pillow, shutting his eyes against voices real and imagined, terrifying and relentless.

* * *

When he goes for his twice-daily walks, he hopes he won't cross his path, but the Joker always meets him, surrounded by three doctors and three nurses with straps and syringes ready. It's unnerving meeting his gaze, glassy brown surrounded by deep shadow, and the scars – he's not immune to that basic human need to know _why_, but no one has ever told him the answer, despite his insistence. He's starting to believe that _they_ don't know either, and he thinks it silly – wouldn't it certainly be of great use to know?

He always averts his gaze quickly, speeding up.

* * *

Escape is a mixed blessing, freedom tinged by trepidation and uncertainty, and despite altered mental states, none of them find the idea of a deal with _him_ to be endearing. He is a mystery despite a file (they'd heard) six inches thick, a dangerous enigma with a misleading façade. He licks at his lips as he waves his hands, orating to an as-yet unconvinced orange-clad crowd. None are eager, but chills mix with rain, rain with exhaustion, and exhaustion with an empty stomach, and most decide that a deal with the devil is better than a clean conscience with God.

* * *

No one knows what they're in for. Staring wide-eyed at unassembled weapons splayed out like bony fingers, they stutter and run at his demands to get moving. It's the blind leading the blind, hopeless maniacs and bitter sociopaths turning firearms in their hands – a dream come true for many of them, tongues lolling out in unhindered appreciation.

He's clueless where to begin, holding a casing in one hand and a magazine in the other, and he looks back at the Boss.

Boss's already staring back, face twisted into an expression of utter hatred, and he decides not to ask how.

* * *

The Boss is _terrifying_ when they see him next – snow-pale skin made whiter by thick makeup, tired eyes hidden by kohl, scars smeared with poppy-red lipstick – and, in a near-unison motion, they all begin to trade glances, fingering heavy weapons and smirking behind sweaty plastic masks.

He sniffs beneath his own, hands occupied with his gun not allowing him to scratch his nose, and he sees only half of the Boss's face through too-small eyeholes.

The Boss motions at them to move, wrists snapping under leather and purple, and he joins the convoy of dementia, fingers shaking on the trigger.

* * *

He's never known that he could do such atrocious things if it was demanded of him – he breaks that woman's nose, hits another in the gut, and shoots her shaking husband in the groin, leaving all three of them writhing for no other offense than getting in the way.

No one else speaks of what they've done, and for many of them, he thinks it might already be second nature. The Boss doesn't leave time for reflection, screaming insults and kicking one of the slower ones in the ass for laughs.

The Boss catches his glance next, and he moves.

* * *

"You see," the Boss begins, lecturing on the fly to an uneasy crowd, "it's all so _relative_, what they want to call _us_, call _me_, but if I was crazy, could I have pulled this all together so _well?_" He's not looking for a response, and shoots the one man who begins to answer. They all take a step back, restraining their reactions and staring at the Boss.

_"Surprise!"_ he yells, face stretched to its limit in a gleeful smile, and he begins to cackle. They jump at the opportunity to leave this mother of all awkward moments, and run.

* * *

The Boss seems to know what makes all of them tick, like he's been privy to each of their files, and he dreads the moments when the Boss chooses him.

_"Ronnie!"_ he always begins, voice lilting in that grotesque singsong while he rains mild blows upon him, keeping himself entertained for a few terrible minutes. The Boss knows what will set him off, and picks inopportune moments to whisper in his ear, trying to break him into thinking it's happening again.

When Ronnie finally breaks down and cries, clutching and ripping at his hair, the Boss can barely stop laughing.

* * *

As the months pass by, he's not too stupid not to notice that there's a lot of _turnover_ in the association, and when he finally works up to courage to ask the Boss _why_, the answer's surprisingly frank – the Boss was an influential guy, wings spread wide, and they couldn't all be in the same place at once, now could they?

When the new friends he's got disappear, he's convinced that the Boss has seen fit to promote them to bigger and better things, and he's jealous.

"Don't mess yourself, Porky," the Boss growls. "You'll have your chance to _shine_."

* * *

One thing he notices about the Boss is that he hates to touch anyone if there's nothing in between them. Thick gloves, fine clothes and clunky shoes separate him from reality, a richly tailored line between chaos and mundanity, and he's never seen the Boss take off anything more than his rich violet overcoat. Phobias are phobias, he guessed, and thought no more of it.

If the Boss has ever done the _really_ dirty work, he's never seen it, and he takes some comfort in the idea that no matter how unpredictable they find him, he's just not _that_ unhinged.

* * *

He's amazed that the Boss is talking _to him_, half-coherent and semi-lucid, hooded eyes seemingly relaying intense thought. "It's, ah…it's amazing, Ron - _Porky_, what they'll say about a guy, a guy like _me_," he stutters, rubbing two fingers together as he reclines, not looking up. " '_Lim_ited mental capacity'- so insulting, don't you think?"

He's not sure what to say to keep it going, and nods slightly. The Boss smirks. "I'd say _I_ have _extra_. Though I wouldn't go so far as to say they're off the mark on _you_."

The Boss cackles, and Ronnie tries to as well.

* * *

The Boss has gone _off,_ leveling rows of petrified henchmen like harvested wheat, flailing his arms and hitting the unluckiest ones near. He's _furious,_ says he'll _shoot_ the next one to fuck this heist up like _this.__ man._ did, and they all know it's the one thing the Boss won't dare joke about. He warns them all to get moving before he decides to _make them all redundant_, grimacing wickedly.

They step over the man's broken body, spilled blood smelling like copper, eyes and face slashed, and he thinks the Boss might be blurring that line between sanity and insanity.

* * *

The Boss is ecstatic, jumping around, heels clacking and mouth twisted in a true smile, and the happiness is infectious, seeping into the group and making them all relax one iota. They think he's finally found the _Bat. Man._

"Harvey, Harvey, Harvey _Dent_," he chants, eventually ceasing the jumping and turning to pacing instead, clenching and unclenching his fists as he looks back and forth from the gathered crowd.

He keeps muttering the name, and none dare to ask him about the _plan_. When he finally stops, adjusting his jacket and gloves, they know to gather their weapons and follow.

* * *

The Boss is frenzied before they even get started, and they watch in horror as he shoves and beats one of the men into unconsciousness, grunting with each vicious kick to the stomach in an unimaginable fit of anger.

"You'll leave the jokes to _me_," the Boss breathes out, kicking him once again and then bending down, picking up the dented can of spray paint and tossing it at his head.

A red "S" drips from the side of the truck, trails of pungent chemicals melting between rivets and steel, and none know if it's okay to laugh this time.

* * *

He wonders what he's expected to do this time, but the Boss doesn't seem to have a role in mind. He stumbles as the truck steers violently around the corner, slamming into the vehicle next to them and veering from side to side. He finally falls and gets tangled within the legs of two other men, knocking them down and sending weapons flying.

The Boss gives him a sidelong glance that leaves him uneasy, but he's too busy firing on the cops following to say what he _really_ means. The trailer suddenly fills with heat and flames, and they duck.

* * *

When he wakes up – and he doesn't remember when sleep came – the pain is beyond description, muscles jittering and stomach turning and mind desperately attempting to come to grips with what's happening to him. The pain stabs and stabs, like violent hiccups just below the sternum that inspire dread with each spasm.

No one's concerned, and, in fact, no one will look at him at all. He tries to sit up, roll over, do _anything_, but he feels like he'll crack in two at the slightest attempt at movement.

When the cops force him out, he gasps, screaming like hell.

* * *

They ignore his pleas for help and mercy, tossing him into the holding cell where the Boss is sitting, stripped of his coat and weapons and still managing to look his most terrifying, eyeing the flabbergasted men outside the cell and ignoring his own men inside.

His stomach shifts violently, lurching, and he bends over while praying to pass out. He begs again, pleading for assistance, and the cop outside sticks his face in and tries to tell him he's _lucky._

When he manages to steal a look at the Boss, he's picking at his nails, flicking his tongue, bored.

* * *

He's taking deep breaths between each new rush of agony, clutching at his sweater and belly, hearing the voices and wondering how soon death can come. The Boss spares him a glance and smiles this time.

"Quit that _moa_ning, Porky," he drawls, scrunching his nose. "You wanted to be _use_ful, didn't you?"

He can't formulate an answer before a man shows up to take the Boss away, gripping his bicep none too gently and making no secret of his vicious contempt. This man's too focused on the new catch to pay him any mind, and he takes another shuddering breath.

* * *

It's too, too long before anyone comes to check on them again, and if the man who took the Boss away is anywhere near as occupied as they're all thinking, it will be some time before they're noticed.

He moans and whimpers to the closest one who will hear, begging for medical attention, sweating and gasping and violently, violently nauseous.

"Boss wouldn't want me to go now," he wheezes, trying to make eye contact with a cop who's pointedly avoiding it. "I'm supposed to have my moment to shine."

The cop finally gives him a look that's anything but comforting.

* * *

They're finally giving him a minute of their time, and he's slumping against the bars now, drool seeping from the corners of his mouth as he's finally giving in to the pain. Muscles spasm violently and he's moments from vomiting. He barely knows what he's saying, pain mixed with voices mixed with the din of the holding cell. He manages to make eye contact.

"Boss said he'd make the voices go away," he huffs and puffs, shaking, "said he'd go in and replace 'em with bright lights - _like Christmas!_"

He doesn't hear their responses as he finally faints, overwhelmed.


End file.
